Teresa felt a curious mixture of sentiments.
Already the worst of the pain was subsiding from the hot, swollen weals she could feel behind. Her bottoms felt twice their normal weight. Was it relief she felt … or a curious pride in having come through the beating? At any rate she found herself approaching the Praelictor with a strange warmly-glowing gratitude, something she had never experienced before.
Huskily, she said, ‘That was a terrific caning.
Those last two were real beauts.’
‘I’m glad you appreciated it.’
‘Oh I did.’
‘You deserved it. And will get much worse.’
‘Oh.’ Standing there in front of this smiling Senior, whose eyes were watching her intently, Teresa Sands felt completely, totally, subdued; she saw the cane still dangling from the other’s fingers and with a wry grimace she rubbed her right hip, where the tip had bitten in. It seemed incredible that thin stick could hurt so much.
‘I’ve never had my bottom flogged quite like that, before.’
‘Well, you can get ready for lots of it.’
Suddenly, flushing deeply, and half to her dismay, Teresa heard herself saying: ‘Might I …
that is … could I kiss the cane?’
‘Yes. That’s good.’
The whipped girl slipped to her knees and implanted a long and fervent kiss to the tip; she even conceived it to be still warm from contact with her situpon.
When she stood up the Senior said, ‘That was very sweet, Terry. I think you’ll learn fast. Come into the bathroom a minute. I need a douche and maybe I’ll reward you there.’
In the bathroom the plump teener took off her shirt. The belt cut in her skin and the saddle strap seemed, in the mirrors, to vanish into the lips in front.
‘Turn and look at your back.’
‘Oooo!’ Looking over her shoulder with a moue, the young girl saw something that scarcely seemed to belong to her; under the belt the high, meaty cheeks were strongly bisected by the strap. Across their rosy and excited-looking halves the weals from the cane were drawn in parallel, purpling bars. They had fallen separately, covering much of the surface but on the right congealing in two places, to form a solidly ridged bruise, black in colour. Tentatively, in a kind of amazement, the girl touched there. The skin felt hot and hard.
‘Oooo!’ she said again, this time with a little shuddery giggle, ‘oh boy, they caught it, didn’t they!’
‘That’ll teach them to be so stuck up, won’t it.’
‘It certainly will,’, said Teresa, frowning.
‘They’ll think twice about getting another.’
‘In a few days those marks’ll be gone. You’ll be surprised. Red, mauve, yellow, green – all colours of the rainbow, just you see. Which one hurt the most?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe’, a wondering finger traced a blood-thickened bruise, ‘that one. Oh they were all absolute aces, Miss.’
And impulsively she flung her arms about the other. As she hugged and girlishly kissed her mentor, the latter reached expertly for the saddle-strap’s buckle behind. ‘I was going to make you wear this all night. But now you’re showing this co-operative spirit so early I’ll just take it off …’
‘Ouuu …’
‘And then you’ll see how nice it is. There. Now to rub the circulation back, in front.’
Almost at once, with a pronounced gasp, the girl arched a-tiptoe against the tennis captain’s strong side.
‘But that’s … oh it’s incredible … I’m …’
‘Of course you are, my dear. And – there – what did I tell you? Just let it go. And you’ll find it’ll last five times as long, after a little attention of that sort. When your nerves are … ooops! Not on my new hose, if you please.’
CHAPTER THREE
High up the hill, overlooking the campus, stood an ivy-clad house, its brick still warm from the day’s sun. The Presidential mansion was indeed known to one and all as Hill House, though the title was unofficial. A soft light glowed from the diamond windows of an upstairs bedroom.
In front of the dying log fire – token in this weather, but one the President appreciated of a Saturday night – a strong figure stretched his legs under the pale blue towelling robe he had donned after his bath. President Milton Hamilton, B.A., B.A., M.A., Ph.D., B. Litt., D.G., M.C., B.Pd. and ff.L., was reading under a lamp. His wife, Mrs.
Georgene, sat opposite him working on her embroidery. Occasionally she glanced at her watch.
The President’s thatch of white hair was brushed firmly back from his severe and ruddy countenance. At sixty-one be was in the full vigour of manhood, a fact attested now by certain stirrings beneath his robe. These were not unnoticed by Mrs.
Georgene Hamilton, M.A.
‘Milton?’
‘Yes?’
‘I think I’m going to bed.’
She put aside her embroidery and approached his chair. Georgene was forty-two, a short but succulent (and, some said, insatiable) brunette with perfect skin, whiter than white.
‘What’s that you’re reading?’
He laid down the book. Along its spine she saw, The Symbolic Structure of the Newt in Tasmania.
‘This guy writes the darndest stuff.’ His robe gave another twitch. ‘Out of this world.’
‘Milton, I believe it’s our …’
‘I believe it is’, he said soberly. Saturday was their night. One of them. He sipped his glass of port. ‘Do you feel ready, my dear?’
‘I think so. Evidently you do.’
For turning to pat his wife’s plump hand he had parted his knees and allowed the prisoner beneath to jump up straight. The Presidential prick was a monster, a magnificent unsated staff gnarled with veins like the root of an olive. It bobbed beautifully at bay before them now, thick with blood and firm in intention.
‘I’ll swear it looks bigger every time’, said the President’s lady reverentially. ‘Sometimes I do wonder, I mean, just how ever I do get all that up.’
‘Well, we have the hammer; I think, all we need is the scourge.’
In the same deeply deferential tone she said,
‘You want to … first?’
‘Sure’, he came back in surprise, ‘don’t you?’
‘I guess so. But it’s a big thing for a girl.’
‘Nonsense, m’dear. You know you enjoy it twice as much afterwards.’
‘There’s no denying that, I fear’, she concurred sadly ‘Nor that it hurts, an awful lot.’
‘Well, remember our motto. We don’t demand anything of our girls we wouldn’t take ourselves.
And if I recall rightly, it’s just about now those poor pledges are beginning to have the drudgery taken out of discipline. You can’t say we don’t take a personal interest in our students.,,
‘All right, then. But might I have a drink?’
‘Absolutely.’ He filled the glass with port from a decanter at his side. ‘Put some spunk into you, dear. Before I do. Help yourself.’
Georgene thoughtfully drained the glass, her eye on the magnificent member glowing before the fire.
‘Shall I undress?’
‘It might be a good thing.’ The President had already returned to his book. ‘This guy’s fantastic.’
‘Completely?’
‘What? Oh. No … that hat. The one you wore to the investiture this afternoon. And the gloves.’
Absently he added, ‘and the thing.’
Slowly she undressed, carefully folding her clothes, her ivory slip, her pink-toned brassiere, hanging up her decent black two-piece. The room was large, with a four-poster bed and tasteful pictures on the panelling; some of this had ceded to mirrors by the bed and they were few who knew that the Presidential baldachin, cheerfully curtained without, housed a mirror, too. Every now and then, as she stripped, Georgene looked at her ripe white body with a pitying apprehension, as if to say – you’re going to get it, my friend, aren’t you just!
She powdered her
wide breasts, to which there was the merest suggestion of sag, then powdered her body all over, especially her buttocks, full and creamy, the glory of her figure. Then she put on the wide cartwheel hat, armpit-length velvet gloves and hoisted her stockings to two thigh-high jewelled garters. Then on teetering heels she went for ‘the thing’.
Her husband sensed, rather than smelt, her perfume beside him as he read.
‘The stick, Milton,’ she said in a small voice.
He clapped to the book and looked up with a bright smile on his ruddy face. Then he stood and kissed his lovely wife, paternally, on the forehead.
‘My dear, that’s charming.’ Framed in the halo of wide straw the face that always seemed just about to cry looked up at him winsomely, in loving fear. She was everywhere soft and tender, with a vulnerability to which the years had merely added. ‘You really are the most spankable. God, I’d have loved to be your Dorm Sister when you pledged for Beta Rho here.’
‘Thank heavens you weren’t!’
He looked her in the eyes. ‘All set for a little hickory therapy?’
Mutely she handed him the long, thin, round cane.
‘How’s it down here?’
He touched the centre of her flesh, and it was moist. She gave him an appealing look.
‘Wasn’t it Oscar Wilde who wrote, “This suspense is terrible, I do hope that it lasts”?’ The President chuckled, flexing the limber limb.
‘Apprehension. Your heart’s beating nicely now.
You feel really alive.’
‘How many’s it going to be, Milton?’
‘Do you think you could go to eight?’
She turned wretchedly – ‘I’ll try.’ She went to the bed. ‘Bring up the mirror, so I can see, would you?’
When the cheval-glass had been placed to her liking facing the foot of the bed she gave her back a last look in it. She had lovely legs, if a little over-soft, set close to on the body. Milton claimed you couldn’t so much as slip a coin between her thighs, from the knees up. And it was true. Her bottom was what her learned husband like to call Restoration-Regency. Her long neck and sloping shoulders did not suggest, to the incurious, so richly based a person. The hips were deep, flowing to a fatty overhang that creased across the width of her thighs – a patient buttock, whose pallor accentuated the murderously flushed look of her husband’s manhood, set, at rather more than right angles now, against it in the mirror.
‘Marks all gone from last time,’ he murmured gently, bending the rod.
‘Must it be eight, Milton?’
He chuckled. ‘Take a look at ‘em. Don’t you think they deserve it, just?’
‘Yes, yes. But …’
‘You know God’s golden rule. Always has to be slightly worse than you expect. That way, it’s so much nicer after. Come, you must admit it, dear.’
She gave a sickly dumb nod. In one horny hand the President took his wife’s right bottom-cheek, lifted it, and let it fall again with a lovely liquidity. She shuddered deeply, squeezing her thighs.
‘Eight of the best for this grand pair.’
‘Please give me them high.’
‘Right above the crease, m’dear, just where you feel it most. Here. Good Heavens! Are you … have you been coming already?’
‘It’s the apprehension, Milton. I’d been thinking about it rather long this time.’
‘Before, a joy proposed. Behind, a dream. How does the poet put it? Well, the interval between’s all mine. The first four will be given over a minute, the other half at thirty-second spaces precisely.
You can look forward to exactly three minutes of roast chestnuts on the rear, my dear. Come.’ And with his prick proudly bobbing the President led the way to the foot of the bed.
Georgene, her wide hat trembling, bent over it, her hands on the covers and her face turned to watch her magnificent mounds in the mirror to her right. She parted her legs widely, her sex glistening between them. The arse cheeks ran with nervous quiverings as the stick touched them in measuring aim.
The President performed this office, as he did all others, conscientiously. He thrashed his wife with a will. Though limber, the stick was tough and its. fiery kiss mounted for many seconds.
Practice had made his lady perfect, however, and he had to cut her butt skilfully and hard.
‘Aaaagh!’ she gasped after the third. ‘Please, Milton. Please come … at me higher.’
‘And four makes four’, he said, sweeping the licky stick upwards into the same chubby undersection and feeling a gratified satisfaction at the way it dug in there.
‘OOOOOOHHH!’
She jumped up, rubbing, but quickly put herself into position again.
‘Please, dear. This is the worst hiding I’ve had in … EEEE!’
Not only was the big man’s timing superb but so was his accuracy, too. A ruler could have been put over the weals he had raised so far. He finished with a stroke that drove a short shriek from his wife’s throat and left her on her knees on the bed, clasping her hind portions. Without undue haste the President doffed his robe and advanced. The unseemly squirmings of his woman appeared to amuse him for a minute and intensify his glandular rigidity. Then, grasping her by the hefty hips, which she seemed intent on pulling apart, he nuzzled the nose of his enormous engine at the edge of the open lair ahead.
‘Ooooh, you hit me hard.’
Her hat had come off in her flounderings and she appeared to writhe herself on him, in pain.
‘Ready?’
‘No. Yer-s-s-s.’
He speared her in a single lunge that extracted another, even more flattering, shriek which culminated in one of the most active contractions he had ever seen. Breathless, she seemed to squirm forward off his impalement, then hung on his skewer, coming for minutes. When she finally collapsed he was deeper in her than ever.
‘There. You always enjoy it better after a beating. It does you a world of good.’
‘You didn’t have to cut me in two, Milton’, she moaned, ‘it still hurts … down there … like, like …’
‘Well, this’ll make it better.’
She spent prodigally again as he began to move –
at which he tut-tutted reprovingly. And then thoughtfully, with the wisdom of his years, he began to slip in and out, his mind on things like the cervical slant, and on how odd it was that however hard you caned a can the marks on the left cheek were two parallel bluing lines … why was there nothing between them? This and other semantic matters occupied his thoughts fully and he knew that tonight he had to get all of it in, or die.
‘No … no.’
Gently the great man eased forward over his wife’s lovely back and placing his arms under hers joined his hands behind her neck in a strong full-nelson, holding her firmly there. At the sign she started to struggle, thus swallowing at least two inches more. And more was still to come.
‘There’s that word’, said the President thoughtfully. ‘The kids use it. I wonder what …
origins … precisely describes … groovy!’
CHAPTER FOUR
A week later the five frosh ‘elect’ were walking across the campus together for classes. it was a sunny Monday morning and the five frowned in unison as they passed some junior Gamma Gamma Phi. In their high heels they stalked the dappled shadows of the lawns over to the History Hall.
Rowena Ricks was the first to break the silence.
‘How’s life?’ she asked in general, vaguely.
‘Perfectly miserable, of course’, said Melissa Hope-Trumpington, yanking at a stocking tab under her cummerbund of a skirt. ‘As per.’
‘After all, it is Hell Term, or something’, chided sarcastically blonde Constance Wood.
‘The blasted thing is’, said Rowena, looking dead ahead of her, ‘in my case I get a stroke for every stroke I get in the House. The whole of the bottom of my … bottom feels like one big bruise. It even hurts to walk.’
‘I believe’, said Joan Mason quietly, ‘that that is the
object of the exercise, dear.’
‘What?’
‘To instil a certain very healthy dread of the next one.’
‘All I know is’, put in Melissa Hope-Trumpington gently, ‘that I would do anything, abso-bloody-lutely anything never – ever – to see again in my life a certain long black switch.’
‘You see’, said Joan Mason sententiously – and everyone hated her for it.
‘I hear that Disney rides you’, said Constance Wood, after a moment.
‘She does’, said Melissa noncommittally. ‘And I can’t tell you how unpleasant a ginger suppository can be up the … you-know-what.’
‘Good Gracious!’ exclaimed Connie, shocked.
‘Nipple rings I’ve had, but not that.’
‘Well’, said pert little Terry Sands, giving a game smile as they passed into the building, ‘it’s all in the interest of getting into Beta Rho.
Imagine! And my Dorm Sis is the Tennis Capt.’ Her eyes shone proudly. Her chin was high. She slipped a hand through Melissa’s arm.
Rounding a bend she was just in time to duck the ritual curtsey as she saw the Praelictor. But Melissa was too late.
‘You!’
The rank of frosh froze. A big cheerful girl in bermudas detached herself from a group across the corridor.
‘Me?’ said Melissa, peering.
‘You’re a worm, aren’t you?’
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘Pledge. You know what I mean.’
‘Yes, of course I am’, said Melissa hurriedly.
‘So how come you don’t curtsey to a Prae when passing?’
‘I’m … sorry. I didn’t see.’
‘Perhaps I can improve your eyesight, from the rear. Where’s your paddle, worm? Now kneel.’
Melissa obeyed. A few eyes turned to observe her but it was clear that this was such a customary tradition it elicited little interest.
‘She can’t …’began Joan Mason, but broke off.
The senior didn’t even bother to raise the flippy little mini nothing Melissa had on behind. There was a meaty thump, and Melissa writhed. Another and she gripped the strong calves of Rowena in front of her. A third and fourth cracked into the same tensed right cheek and Melissa yipped.
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